


Meant For The Dark

by KaraArgent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Lot of Death, BAMF Stiles, Basically our world but worse, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Darachs, Dark Stiles, Drugs, Druids, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Guns, Hallucinations, I Love Peter, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Titles, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Not Ashamed, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kitsune, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Nightmares, Nogitsune, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Post-5A, Schizophrenia, Scott is a Bad Friend, Sharing a Bed, Slow Dancing, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles is Legal, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Stiles-centric, Werewolves, Wolf Derek, a lot of shit, also, and, but it'll make sense, even though he's not in it, exactly what it looks like, kind of, nogitsune's are assholes, void, yes stiles too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-12-07 12:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11623380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraArgent/pseuds/KaraArgent
Summary: They came from the shadows. Just like the first time. Except this time he knows who they are when they creep along his spine, when they ghost against his skin and disappear with the daylight.The Oni. They're back.But this time they're not here to kill him. They're here to protect him.***After Stiles kills Donovan and Scott then proceeds to kick him out of the pack, Stiles does the only thing that he can think of and that he wants to; leave Beacon Hills. He leaves a note for his father, not telling him where he's going but saying that he isn't coming back. Sure, it's wrong and he gets that, but it's for the best. His dad will be safer without him there, and Scott will have his perfect little pack.But he's not alone. After six months he's met with an familiar face and a group of creatures that had been hunting him for some time that like to call themselves "The Cult".As him and his companion set off on the run The Cult only seems to only want two things.Chaos, and him.





	1. Meant For The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First chapter will be updated soon! #SterekShippers

They came from the shadows. Just like the first time. Except this time he knows who they are when they creep along his spine, when they ghost against his skin and disappear with the daylight.

The Oni. They're back.

But this time they're not here to kill him. They're here to protect him.

***

After Stiles kills Donovan and Scott then proceeds to kick him out of the pack, Stiles does the only thing that he can think of and that he wants to; leave Beacon Hills. He leaves a note for his father, not telling him where he's going but saying that he isn't coming back. Sure, it's wrong and he gets that, but it's for the best. His dad will be safer without him there, and Scott will have his perfect little pack.

But he's not alone. After six months he's met with an familiar face and a group of creatures that had been hunting him for some time that like to call themselves "The Cult".

As him and his companion set off on the run The Cult only seems to only want two things.

Chaos, and him.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One.

It was the dusk before a new dawn when he first saw them. Little wisps of smoke breaking across the ground around him that caused him to fall to a perfect stand still, the wind rushing against his skin as his breath caught in his throat.

 

They grew, the smoke spiraling upward, forming five figures that surrounded him, their glowing eyes like a harsh breath of tainted air. And all's he could do was stare.

 

He'd had no protection, and sure he could sort of defend himself when his life really depended on it, but not against them. He wasn't the nogitsune, he couldn't just shove his hand through their chests and hope to catch hold of the firefly that lay beneath. Honestly, he thought he was gonna die.

 

But they had just stood there, staring at him-or maybe through him-not moving an inch as their swords stayed placed at their sides.

 

Stiles hadn't dared to move, fearing that one little twitch could set them off, and the coffee in his hands grew cold as the minutes, then hours flew by.

 

When the sun came out finally and he felt half dead on his feet, they disappeared just as they came. No trace of them was left behind, no proof that they had even been there in the first place.

 

It had been the first time that Stiles had felt unsafe in two months, but that was just the start of it.

 

 

                                                                 

   

 

Stiles began to do what he does best-or what he used to do best; search for answers. He knows that silver kills them, but he didn't have any silver arrowheads, and guns with silver bullets wouldn't work. Thanks Argent. Both of them.

 

But, he wanted to know why they were there. Why did they come to him? He was done with the supernatural, had been for two entire months. So why come fuck things up for him now?

 

He was living in Tulare, California, in a nice little apartment with not too pricey pay, regular shitty and noisy neighbors, and a full-time job at a dinner downtown as a waiter. He was finishing high school online, bought a new phone. He felt normal. He hung out with new friends, changed his name, got a nice tan and grew his hair out, and started jogging with a few people from the gym he went to on the weekends. It was good. He was happy.

 

So why did things in his life always go to shit when he loved them the most? Was it just the supernatural in general, or was he like a fuck up magnet for anything with sharp teeth and glowing eyes?

 

It just didn't make sense that they stood around him literally all night, swords at the ready, though they attacked nothing. If they had wanted him dead, he would have been dead the moment his eyes adjusted to their darkness. So, what the hell where they doing?

 

If only they spoke English. Or spoke at all.

 

 

                                                                 

 

  
He had been hesitant to contact anyone from his past at first, but after a long day of calling into work sick and laying down tossing and turning without sleep he phoned only one person.

 

"Hey," Stiles said from where he was sprawled across his bed when the phone picked up, knowing that he had an entirely different number that the person on the other line wouldn't have. "Is it a bad time?"

 

"...Stiles?" A rough voice said over the phone, and he realized as he glanced over his shoulder at his clock on his nightstand that it was in fact night again. Precisely almost midnight.

 

It's probably a bad time.

 

"Yeah. It's me."

 

There was some shuffling in the back ground, the sound of breathing the only thing he really listened to for a moment before they returned.

 

"Where are you?"

 

"Aw," Stiles said, a small smirk gracing his lips as he stared at his ceiling and ignored his shaking fingers. "You sound like you're worried."

 

"I am." Chris Argent said never. "I'm worried."

 

Stiles sighed, slowly carding his fingers through his dark hair and pushing it away from his face as he contemplated how Chris would react to his next words. "I can't tell you."

 

There was silence for a moment, and Stiles closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose as he prepared for the worst.

 

"I'll trace the phone."

 

It was expected, but it still sent an uncomfortable rush down his spine.

 

He responded easily, lying straight through his teeth. He was an expert at that. People around here called him Dave. "And I'll leave."

 

He wouldn't leave. He liked it here too much and didn't want to up root his life again. The first time was enough and the thought of doing it again hurt almost too much. But Chris didn't know that. Nor did he need to.

 

Chris said nothing, and both sides of the line were silent for several minutes and Stiles thought that the hunter might actually know that he was lying. Then;

 

"Do you need my help?"

 

Stiles let out a breath he was holding, glad that he chose to call Chris. Maybe he would actually benefit from this. "I need weapons."

 

"What kind?" He heard Chris move in the background again, something rustling like a stack of crumpled papers.

 

"Silver. A lot of sliver."

 

"Any particular reason why silver is your main chose?" Chris asked, sounding genuinely curious.

 

Sure, Stiles could ask Chris to come help him, could tell him that he thinks he's being hunted by the Oni again for God knows why. But he didn't know what the hunter was dealing with right now. He could have his own problems. Hell, he didn't even know if Chris was still even in Beacon Hills. Stiles almost hoped he wasn't.

 

"Because I like silver?" Stiles tried uneasily. He didn't want to tell Chris about the Oni. He didn't want to tell him about anything honestly.

 

"Stiles," Chris started, and Stiles knew that he didn't buy it. Well, it was worth a shot. A shot in the dark. "If you're going to call me for weapons, the least you could do is tell me what you're dealing with."

 

Stiles contemplated his next words, sighing audibly as Chris waited silently on the other line. Maybe he should just hang up. He'd do it if this were any other conversation with any other person. But this isn't any other conversation, and Chris isn't just any other person.

 

He's Chris fucking Argent. And Stiles thinks that maybe the hunter knows him just a little too well.

 

And of course there's the fact that surely then if he did hang up, Chris might actually trace his phone and he'd be fucked. And he was already screwed to hell, so why make it worse? But then again, would anything make it better?

 

Probably silver weapons.

 

_Lie._

 

"There have been a few complications in the town where I'm staying," Stiles started, the words slipping past his lips in an almost rehearsed fashion as he eased into them, adjusting his pillow slightly.

 

"And what kind of complications might those be?"

 

"Wraiths."

 

The line was silent again, and Stiles wondered for a second if Chris didn't believe him, or if he had his facts wrong-no. He wasn't wrong. One touch of silver and a wraiths skin would crack and crumble. Maybe they should stop feeding off of people's brains and wait for the zombie apocalypse to happen so they can eat all the brain their terribly-possibly nonexistent-hearts could desire.

 

It was the perfect excuse. Hopefully just not too perfect.

 

Chris finally decided to end Stiles' suffering.

 

" _Wraiths?_ Did one get to you? Are you-"

 

Or maybe he didn't.

 

"I'm okay, Chris." Stiles didn't like the concern in the other man's voice. It sounded to personal, and it hit way closer to home than when anyone around here would ask him if he were alright when he was having an off day. _'Are you alright Dave?', 'I'm fine.', 'alright, well I'm here for you if you need to talk.'_ With Chris, he would know if something was wrong with him (isn't there always?), and he didn't like that. Distance was always key.

 

"I managed to catch the bastard in a mirror in the gym bathroom before he tried to grope me in the alley,"-grope, really Stiles-"and I shoved my silver pen into his shoulder. You should have heard him, he wailed like a little bitch."

 

Ah, if only that were true. Plus, did he just possibly tell Chris that he swung both ways? Eh, like Argent would care. Pretty sure that if Kate didn't burn the Hale's and if Peter wasn't totally screwy, they'd probably be fucking on a daily basis at this point. Of course, revenge and hate sex always seem to be the hottest...

 

Anyway. "But he did get away. And he could possibly have friends." The image of Chris Argent and Peter Hale fucking would forever be permanently seared into his mind. And what's worse is that it's only in his imagination. Or maybe it happened in a dream once.

 

"Smart move with the pen," Chris commented, once again ending Stiles' suffering. Or maybe he'd just make it worse again. "And you don't want me to come and help?" Like that.

 

"I'm doing good alone," Stiles murmured, biting his lip. He didn't want to sound rude to Chris, hell, the hunter wasn't even one of the people or reasons that Stiles had left his life behind in the first place. Just because he was apart of his past doesn't mean that he could be blamed for it. "It's just... it's easier for me."

 

Chris hummed. "It's easier to let go."

 

Stiles closed his eyes again, and instead of responding he hummed like Chris did. He didn't want Chris to know how true his words were. Or how much they seemed to hurt.

 

But pain was apart of life, and it was apart of letting go. And to do that, Stiles would have to take all the pain and aches that came with it. And he was willing to.

 

"You know," Chris said after a moment of silence between them again. They seemed to have a lot of those. "You'd make a pretty good hunter."

 

It didn't sound like Chris was testing the words. He said it like a statement.

 

Stiles found himself laughing softly, a genuine smile sliding onto his tired face even as he rolled his eyes. "You really think so?"

 

"I do."

 

Chris' pure honesty that rung in his tone is what caused a lump to finally form in Stiles' throat. He forced himself to push through it so the moment wouldn't be more serious than it already was.

 

"Yeah, well maybe one day I'll ask you to teach me the life."

 

"Maybe one day I will."

 

It was silent for another minute, and Stiles stared up at his ceiling, listening to the hunter breathing as he steadied his own shaky breaths.

 

He wondered again if Chris actually believed that there were wraiths where Stiles was, and if he'd actually give him any weapons.

 

It wasn't like Chris could call him out on his lie. Chris couldn't possibly know that his reason for really needing silver was because the Oni were back to ruin his life-yes, even with one encounter with those demons he was sure that that was their ultimate goal, and possibly everything's goal at some point in time-so the hunter couldn't just say that he was lying. Hell, he didn't even know where he was for Christ's sake! Yet...

 

Stiles would have to tell him where he was staying to get the weapons if Chris was willing to give them, so his location staying hidden was at an absolute failure. Maybe he could have Chris send them to a neutral location, or maybe just get them from Chris himself-but he wasn't that trustworthy. Of anyone. Nor was he sure that he could face him.

 

Chris was the one to break the silence yet again, and Stiles allowed his brain to slow down (did he really?) and focus as Chris spoke softly.

 

"I'll get you some weapons."

 

There was a click, no goodbye, no last witty comment for Stiles so this conversation didn't feel too personal-even though that's kind of what it was-and no prolonged moment of their strange shared silence. Well, endless you count the dial tone, but even that echoed.

 

Stiles didn't attempt to call Chris back, he suddenly felt numb, and all his energy faded with a sudden flutter of his eyes that caused sleep to finally overtake him.

 

The only thing on his mind was that Chris didn't even know where he stayed.

 

 

                                                                          

 

 

He got a package from Chris not two days later (meaning the hunter traced his call), an arsenal lining the inside; guns and bullets, bows and arrows, and daggers all silver as Stiles felt a smile stretch onto his still tired face.

 

A piece of printing paper was tucked into a case of bullets, Chris' elegant hand writing a nice change from all the print he reads on his computer as he looked over the short note.

 

_Be safe. Don't hesitate to call me again. -Argent_

 

He felt his chest tighten, even at such few words and he tucked the note back into the case, grabbing one of the bows and twirling an arrow between his fingers experimentally. Next time, he'd be ready. (He wasn't. Not really.)

  

 

                                                                          

 

 

The second time they came, he was running.

 

He was bleeding, his side torn painfully open as he stumbled through the unfamiliar woods, miles away from his apartment.

 

He was being hunted by a blue eyed fucking werewolf, props to his shredded skin, his palm hot and slick with fresh warm blood as he pressed it there roughly to stop the blood from flowing. But it didn't slow.

 

He was getting weaker, and every time he stumbled black dots would spread across his vision like a plague. But the growl of the werewolf tailing him only made him run faster.

 

It was too dark to say when they first appeared, but he remembered the sensation of a cold prickling dragging across the back of his neck. He remembered the firefly glowing eyes that haunted his sight in the pitch black night with a sliver of the moon visible, right in front of him as he skidded to a staggering halt, barely managing to stay up right.

 

He had lost his new bow some ways back, a three clawed gash against the back of his knuckles still bleeding slowly as his hand gripped the single arrow he had left. Thank you again Argent.

 

He jerked forward, aiming the single arrow at it's chest, hoping that he landed home and didn't pull back a bloody stub.

 

The Oni moved quick, a glint of light shinning off of a Ninja-to sword as it came down, and he expected agonizing pain, but all's that the demon cut was his arrow. In half.

 

He dropped the rest of the arrow which was now useless (and probably always was), and fell a step back, eyes wide as his heart pounded achingly against his ribs.

 

It came at him and he flinched back harshly, startled as it turned to smoke, going straight through him, making his insides run cold.

 

He turned quickly, stumbling back several steps to gain some distance between them. But as he watched his chest grew tight, a gasp catching in his throat as the sword swung out right across the approaching wolf's neck, blood rushing to the surface as it let out a startled whine, eyes flickering from murderous blue to a human brown.

 

"Wait!" Stiles shouted, his voice cracking and heavy with fatigue. But he needed to know why the werewolf was after him.

 

The Oni froze as if on command, it's sword falling right back to it's side as it turned to him. It's eyes shined in the darkness brightly. then it stepped out of the way as the werewolf collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his throat, eyes wide as he struggled to breath with blood bubbling past his lips.

 

Stiles stared at the demon a second longer before moving hurriedly to the werewolf, dropping to his knees in front of him and ignoring the sting it caused as he put pressure over the wolf's cold hands on the wound to help him. He dismissed his own flaming side and the fact that the wolf was just trying to kill him not minutes ago to figure out why he was here in the first place. To figure out what he wanted. You don't kill without reason.

 

"Why," he whispered, voice too weak to go any higher. "Why are you after me?"

 

"They.... They told me to come after you," The wolf murmured, eyes fluttering, but Stiles could tell he was trying to heal. "They-they would kill her if I didn't."

 

"Who would they kill?" Stiles asked, knowing all too well that if the positions were reversed, he'd do anything to save someone he loved.

 

"M-my wife." Was his rasped reply.

 

Stiles closed his eyes, his shirt sticking to his hip as his blood slicked across his skin faster. He was more than definitely going to bleed out. But, this werewolf-this man, had a wife on the line. But for Stiles?

 

"Who wants me dead?" Stiles finally said, the wolfs hands getting warmer beneath his own as his eyes started glowing again. "Who sent you?"

 

"They call themselves; The Cult."

 

Then the wolf lashed out, claws sinking into his chest as Stiles cried out, head slamming back on the ground as the wolf climbed on top of him, throat fully healed.

 

"I-I'm sorry," The wolf uttered, his voice sincere as Stiles struggled weakly to get his clawed hands off him, pain thrumming through him, his vision blacking out in spurts as he struggled to stay awake. To stay alive. "I can't let her die."

 

There was a sudden squelching sound above him, sickening to Stiles' ears. A muted gurgle followed before the wolf fell flat onto him, the breath rushing out of Stiles in a gust of pain.

 

"What the-" He struggled to get out, trying to make the wolf move, then the weight was lifted and he sucked in a sharp breath, his lungs not expanding quick enough as he wheezed and started coughing harshly.

 

Something cold akin to a hand gripped his left bicep tightly a second later, elongating a groan to pass through his lips as he was tugged up into a standing position. He blinked heavily, staring directly into the Oni's gaze, two more Japanese demon's accompanying it now.

 

He didn't pull away until he could stand on his own, staring at them wearily as they stood silent and still. Then he glanced down to see the werewolf dead, blood spreading across his chest darkly from the killing wound, eyes open and unseeing.

 

Stiles let out a shuddered breath, putting his bloody palm back to his ripped side, the cuts on his chest bleeding very little from the claw piercings. He turned back to the Oni a moment later, confused and very tired as they stood at attention, almost like soldiers.

 

Soldiers who just saved his life.

 

He realized with a start that they weren't trying to kill him. They were protecting him.

 

 

                                                                             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, but that was the first chapter! Also, if anyone has any recommendations or something they think I should add, please let me know. And, I'm taking AU idea's. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> (Also the top says chapter seven but it's only because of my drafts.)


	8. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two

Stiles took up training classes at the gym after his third werewolf attack in the same week, figuring it'd be better to learn how to actually defend himself for once. He didn't know how long the Oni would provide protection for him, and he wasn't willing to take that chance and rely on them for support. Any chance.

 

He had stitches and scars that mostly looked like knife slashes scissoring across his skin, and the occasional small crescent mark from where a werewolf's claws dug in that were mostly on his arms. He wondered if people thought they were track marks when they not so subtly stared at him. Well, he wasn't a drug addict...unless you count taking prescription pills like there was no tomorrow. Yeah, so maybe he had a problem. But it wasn't anyone else's but his own. (The ecstasy pills that his friend; Jimmy, from the diner gave him that were sitting under his bed didn't count one bit.)

 

The long and thick actual knife wound from Noshiko's tail across his abdomen was the most prominent scar on his slightly pale flesh, the gruesome bite wound from Donovan on his shoulder coming in second. And both were the ones he never wanted to think about or re-imagine. Ever again.

 

Either way, his instructor barely looked at the marks on his body and said nothing as he showed him what he knew. Now he went to work and came home sore, but exhilarated. Who knew learning to fight would actually be fun? (Probably everyone but him until now.)

 

Of course, logically speaking most of the people he knew never actually learned to fight-or wield a sword for that matter-they had simply been able to do it because it was in their "nature". Well, he'd be damned if not being a werewolf was going to stop him from being able to beat one in a fight.

 

After all, he had taken down worse despite being unprepared and basically defenseless.

 

The first time he picked up a black plated Japanese Ninjato sword was a week later.

 

The Oni appeared like they did every night now when the sun's homely glow fell from the sky, and he didn't even glance their way, though he could feel them, almost like a presence slinking at the back of his mind. It wasn't an unsettling feeling per se, it was just like when you knew someone was standing behind you even though you had no previous knowledge to prove it. (Which actually is kind of unsettling if you think about it.)

 

It was instinct.

 

It should worry him that he had gotten so used to their presence in such little time, but he just continued working on the AP class course on his laptop like there wasn't five Japanese demon's standing guard by his apartment windows.

 

There had been a sharp metallic clanging sound against his floor that made him flinch, startled away from his bright screen as he looked toward the Oni reflexively.

 

There was a sword lying on the concrete floor in front of the one closest to him, the black plated metal of the Ninjato glinting in the dimly lit living room.

 

He frowned, glancing at each of Oni for a separate second, but none of them moved. And the sword stayed right where it was.

 

Stiles stood up slowly from his couch as he set his laptop down, confused as to why the demon would just drop one of its swords and leave it there, or why they'd drop it in the first place. It's not like they get tired, right? The thought was almost as humorous as Stiles ever being sane again.

 

"Uh...Are you gonna get that?" He asked, not expecting a response. And in return, all's he got was slight head turn in his direction and firefly glowing eyes staring into his soul. He nodded, "Okay then."

 

He moved slowly forward, caution still wired through his brain around them-despite being on the receiving end of their protection-his shoulders coiled tight with tension. He leaned down, eyes never leaving the Oni's as he grabbed the sword's hilt, the texture rougher and colder than he thought it would be. It sent a silent chill down his spine as he finally looked away from the eerie eyes, down to the Ninjato in his grasp, the weight lighter than he expected it to be.

 

Then, the demon moved.

 

The Oni's blade struck across his own with a sharp spark when he lifted it instinctively, whiskey eyes wide as he stared at them.

 

"Holy shit!"

 

Stiles jerked back several steps quickly, holding the sword out awkwardly in front of him, his eyes flicking to the other Oni who hadn't moved, then back to the one who was continuing to advance on him.

 

"Wait, wait wait-" He was cut off by another strike that he just barely managed to block, his hands burning and his wrists stinging in pain from the force of the blow as he cursed. The Ninjato clattered to the ground from his shaking grasp, his fingers spasming as he staggered back in horror, expecting another hit.

 

But the Oni stood still at once, sword at the ready though he didn't move to attack again.

 

Stiles breathed heavily, heart pounding in his chest and throbbing against his rib-cage, his stomach churning wildly and he felt as if he were about to throw up. After several minutes of staring at the suddenly hostile then calm demon and regaining his composure, Stiles frowned, confused and more than kind of angry.

 

"What the hell was that?!" He burst. He was so very confused. On why he was just attacked, on why they were even here to begin with, or why they were protecting him. On why werewolves were trying to kill him! "Just...what the hell?"

 

The Oni said nothing, and he knew the demon wouldn't. That didn't mean that he didn't want answers.

 

But how the hell could he get any?

 

He turned his back to the Oni, probably a bad move-though his idea's were never truly the best-and walked over to the desk where his phone rested near his laptop. As he picked it up he glanced back, seeing all five Oni rooted to their spots, then turned his gaze back to his phone and went to his call logs.

 

He swiped his fingers nimbly as he got the chat he wanted open, his thumb gliding across the screen, messaging Chris in the span of a few moments. He was better with a computer.

 

 

> Message to Chris from Stiles :
> 
> _Any reason why someone would give me a sword and try to fight me?_
> 
> Sent: 8:37 PM

 

  
He waited silently, contemplating whether or not he should just tell the hunter what's really going on. Explain that he's being hunted by creatures he once thought were his friends, and being protected by demons he once assumed were his enemies. How could his life change so much in such short time? He was so fucked.

 

His phone buzzed a moment later and he flicked open the message, eyes skimming over the contents.

 

>   
>  Message to Stiles from Chris :
> 
> _Depends. To kill you, or train you?_
> 
> Sent: 8:40 PM

 

  
He glanced up slowly from his phone, turning off the bright screen as he swallowed thickly. Since he was mostly positive that they weren't trying to kill him, did that mean that they were trying to....train him? Swords training? Sure, he had the basics of CQC down, and he was slowly but surely teaching himself to use the weapons that Chris had gotten him, but fighting against an Oni? A Japanese demon? Training with one? It was so surreal....

 

His phone buzzed in his grasp again, startling him out of his thoughts as he jumped in surprise, blinking frantically for a moment to focus on reality before turning his phone screen on and opening the message.

 

>   
>  Message to Stiles from Chris :
> 
> _Stiles? You there?_
> 
> Sent: 8:43 PM

 

  
Stiles hummed softly in the back of his mouth, throat tightening slightly as he realized that Chris had been the first person in so long to actually worry if Stiles didn't immediately respond to his message. It made his eyes sting in a knowing way, so he pushed the feelings away, skewering his lips together as he blinked a few more times to settle. When he was sure that he was fine he responded, ignoring the way his thumb hovered over the truth, typing a lie instead.

 

For Chris's safety.

 

>   
>  Message to Chris from Stiles :
> 
> _Yeah, I'm here. And thanks. It was to train._
> 
> Sent: 8:46 PM

 

  
Stiles turned off his screen again, setting his phone down as he shook himself forcefully, seeming to jar back into his senses and body as he stumbled forward in a mess of limbs, as graceful as ever. He scrubbed a hand down his face, his palm scraping over the small stubble that had begun to spread along his jaw and chin whenever he forgot to shave. He had decided two days ago to let it grow out a little and see if he liked it. It might make him look older as well.

 

He walked back over to the Oni who had given-kind of?-the sword to him, reaching down to pick it up and noticing the demon move right back into a defensive stance, firefly eyes penetrating his as he looked up and met its gaze.

 

"Okay," He said slowly, determination threading across his features as he stood straight and held up the sword in a matching defensive position. "Teach me how to fight."

 

He got a jarring attack that lined up their swords evenly in response as the Oni held his stare intensely.

 

And teach him they did.

 

  
                                                                                                        ---__----__---__----__---

 

  
Stiles tossed and turn for numerous moments, strands of his dark hair strewn across his pillow and sticking to his abnormally pale and tired face, sweat clinging to his skin and making his clothes stick to him as he grunted uncomfortably.

 

He had been fully awake for the past three days straight, and tonight wasn't going to be any different. His limbs were limp and heavy, feeling more like lead and de-attached segments than actually apart his own body. His eyelids sunk every now and again but refused to stay shut, refused to allow him to get any rest.

 

He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him.

 

He had gone to work every day this past week and had been perfectly fine. Everything had been going well, he had learned more in his combat skills, got ahead on his studies, and had been training with the Oni since the past weekend. He was getting good.

 

He hadn't been hunted by any more werewolves-thank fuck-and everything had been relatively quiet.

 

But now something was forcing him to stay awake, and he couldn't for the life of him figure anything out. Maybe he should ask an Oni to knock him out.

 

He rolled over again, then muttered what sounded like a growl to even his own ears as he nearly tore his shirt to get it off of his body too warm. The seam ripped beneath his grasp like paper but he could care less as he removed it from his practically sticky body, balling it up and tossing it somewhere in his room. When nothing else made a sound he reassured himself with the slight victory that nothing was knocked over.

 

Not that he'd get up to fix anything if he had made something fall. At least, not until the morning.

 

He flipped onto his back in irritation not a heartbeat later, shoving a hand through his hair to push it out of his sweat-slick face, then carding his fingers through it to soothe himself. When his fingers started to spasm from exhaust he lied his hand down on his chest gently, shaking for a few seconds before eventually going numb.

 

He grits his teeth together, a click sounding when his jaw snapped shut and echoing in his ears as he sneered in frustration. He closed his eyes and let blackness invade his senses. But he could distinctly hear the annoying drip of his leaky faucet-his landlord was trash and honestly sucked at his job-and he could hear the faint sounds of the city below in the night time.

 

It felt like being in Eichen House all over again.

 

His neighbors weren't any better or helping his case at all, and one of the attendants above him was currently partying, the base of their music slightly causing his ceiling to vibrate. He wouldn't be all that shocked if it collapsed at any moment. At least he'd be put out of his misery. The one below his apartment was relatively quiet tonight, which was surprising considering the female was constantly screaming obnoxiously from her "casual encounters". Stiles had considered tapping that a few times, but her voice was too high whenever she tried to flirt with him, and plus, Samantha was just way too full of herself.

 

And right about now, he felt nauseated. If he could get out of his bed and reach his bathroom in time he might just have the strength to hurl some acid, since he had missed dinner tonight.

 

He needed some sleep.

 

So what does any sleep-deprived individual do? That's right-grabs their phones and decides to screw around until they die from depravity. Aka, why people really go to hell.

 

He hasn't downloaded any games on his phone since he'd gotten it, figuring he'd use his computer more than the small pocket device-which he was right about. He doesn't have that many options really, he could text a few of his new friends. But they were probably already asleep. Unlike him.

 

If he really had nothing to do, he could always go upstairs and join Joseph's party. The music that was playing wasn't too horrible. Maybe he'd get lucky.

 

Instead of thinking on that idea further-he'd probably go back to it later on in the night-he scrolled through his contacts, several new, and some...old. Some numbers, he knew by heart.

 

After he had gotten the phone when he got his first steady pay check-not including the fake credit cards he had used to get money to buy himself an apartment and fake identity as soon as he left-he had added all of his old contacts to the phone, despite wanting to forget everything and everyone he'd left behind.

 

No. He refused to feel guilty. It was better this way. Especially now.

 

He scrolled past his dad's quickly, like he'd be scalded if he let his eyes focus on it, bypassing Kira's along the way. Lydia's was almost easier to look at, mostly because she hadn't been...all there when Stiles had left, and Liam's went by with a small pang. He slowed when he got to Malia's, stopping on her name as his throat constricted uncomfortably. He tried to swallow through the almost stinging pain that came with the thought of her, but the lump only got bigger.

 

He clicked it.

 

Her picture icon-one he'd transferred from his old phone much like his other contacts, sue him he was a sentimental asshole-grew bigger as her number presented itself on the overly bright screen. The slight upturn of her full lips and the mischief in her dark gaze made Stiles close his eyes again.

 

He loved her. He had been in love with her. But with the distance, he had realized that feelings could fade, and that time sometimes does truly heal.

 

He wasn't in love with Malia anymore, but he did still love her. Like family. She was his first true love, what he had with Lydia had been different. That had been an obsession. And he'd always have a special place in his heart for the coyote.

 

With a quiet sigh, he opened his weak eyes again, his cornea's glossy, then typed a few numbers before hers to make his unknown and untraceable before he hit call. He put the phone to his ear as he pictured her lying in bed, in a deep sleep by now.

 

It went to voicemail after the fifth ring, her voice sounding through. It was the only thing-besides Chris-that he could listen to without getting pulled too far back in.

 

_"Hey, you've reached Malia Tate. Just leave a message since I can't answer the phone right now. Probably asleep of fighting off assassins and werewolves-"_

 

There was static in the background of the other end, and Stiles could hear his own voice mumbling and her whispering something back in the same tone as he smiled softly, shaking his head fondly as his dark locks flopped across his forehead, dropping into his closed eyes.

 

Her voice came back. _"Right....no werewolves. Werewolves and assassins aren't real. Or any other supernatural creatures-"_

 

_"Malia-"_

 

_"Bye!"_

 

The phone beeped a moment later after she muttered something else to him, his response to her a chuckle before silence filled the line for a recording.

 

Waiting for him to break the dam and speak.

 

He didn't say anything, this being the third he's called her this past week just to hear it, and after a few quiet seconds, he ends the call, head sinking further down into the pillow.

 

It makes what he did more real. He left. There was no going back.

 

The missing is what honestly hurts the worst, but he tended to dim it by focusing on other things like his studies, work, and training at the gym. And now...everything else.

 

He tilted his head slightly to look over to his room door reflexively, glancing to the unwavering Oni who stood guard in the night, the other Japanese demon's plastered around his apartment like the shadows they came-were conjured-from.

 

With another frantic blink, he returns his attention back to his phone screen, exiting her contact and continuing to scroll down. He passed over Scott's without so much as a glance, wondering why he even had decided to keep that one like he did so with the others. He wasn't necessarily bitter with the True alpha like he had been when he first left, his insides twisting at the thought of Scott McCall's self-righteous face. Now, he just didn't really care.

 

He still cared for Scott of course, because Scott will always be his best friend. Well, had always been a best friend. Past tense. But he's still his brother. But Scott wasn't his problem anymore. None of them were. He was done with that part of his life. Or, he was trying to be.

 

As he paused on another contact, a familiar feeling of hurt and longing churned in his stomach and threatened to pierce his heart as he thumbed over the name. Well, the only contact on his phone without the person's real name.

 

Instead, the contact read; "Sourwolf", something that had once seemed so hilarious that now hurt so bad.

 

He hadn't really thought about Derek Hale since Scott had brought him up the night he had stalked Theo with Liam. He couldn't let himself. Derek had left, he had moved on, he had a better life now. And maybe Stiles did too.

 

With an almost warm feeling in his chest, he allowed himself to let something from his past go, an old memory of happier times. Then, he deleted Derek Hale's contact from his phone.

 

(Eventually, he did go upstairs to Joseph's party. And, he managed to get lucky. Twice.)

 

  
                                                                                                         ---__----__---__----__---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It says chapter eight at the top, but that is only because of the drafts saved. I tried to change it and it deleted one of them so I have to do something else. In the mean time, hope you enjoyed and sorry for the horrendous wait!


	9. Chapter Three

It's almost reveling as he walks into the diner for work the next morning, a thousand-watt smile curled onto his tanned face, whiskey eyes bright and lively, and his hand up to high five one of his favorite costumers-Neil, who Stiles constantly flirts with to get the other's boyfriend riled up, and he who flirts right back-as he walks to the back where the employee lockers to the diner are to change into his work attire.

 

He isn't tired anymore, despite still not sleeping through the rest of the long night. But that had more to do with the tangle of limbs and long porn-star kisses he shared with a lovely brunette female whose name had never registered in his mind at the party. And then, when she was finally asleep at his hip, both of them naked and barely covered by silk sheets, Joseph had pulled Stiles out of his guest bedroom by the back of his neck, tongue flicking gently in his mouth against his own in slow thrusts. It was kind of funny, because when he fucked him he was anything but.

 

And yeah, he's definitely not complaining. Screw needing rest, screw sleeping; _sex for days!_

 

He should start a trend.

 

When his beautiful coworker; Jessica "I used to do porn webcam videos until I got kicked out of my dorm, what's your sin?" Miles saw him pulling the plain black long sleeve cotton shirt over his head, the diner's name; Lisella's Diner, splattered in a ray of different colored ink's across the front of his chest, she sidled up beside him, grinning with a knowing look.

 

"I want detail's David." There was a twinkle in her grey-blue eyes when she pulled at his shirt collar, shooting him a playful scandalized look at the trail of hickeys that went farther down-if you catch his drift. "All the details."

 

Stiles huffed a laugh, getting away from the golden blonde and her prying hands and sexual innuendo's. He maneuvered around the kitchen, nodding to several of the cooks, then to the front to grab his notepad and pen for the costumer's orders, allowing Jessica with an afterthought to tie his Bistro apron around his waist-which he'd unsurprisingly left behind in his locker. He was always forgetting something these days.

 

Jessica still managed to get in front of him, her small body-nearly a foot and a half shorter than him-blocking his path, a smirk on her plump bold blood red lips. She wagged a finger in between them, like he'd committed a crime or bad act or something. When he raised an eyebrow she grinned, shooting a side-eyed look to Sheryl who simply rolled her eyes at them from behind her thick black-boxed glasses and red dyed bob, then grabbed Stiles by the elbow to turn him and guide him back to the lockers.

 

He was still smiling, because good sex always keeps him in a "don't frown" state of being. And that, had been great sex. As in; victory dances continuously behind closed doors from the watchful eyes. When he saw Jessica's expectant look he couldn't help but delve into his night. And he didn't leave anything out.

 

 

                                                                        

 

 

  
His good mood hadn't let up since he started his shift, so when he was only fifteen minutes away from his first break, he was buzzing with energy. He was starting to think that some of the tourists-the usual's more than likely knew what his grin meant-where getting scared of him. Eh, who cares. They wouldn't be back. But he'd still get laid.

 

He was somehow never tired of serving the customers, unlike most of the other waiters. Maybe because most tipped him, maybe because everyone he'd seen was normal, or maybe because it was routine. He liked how things were. Things changing would not be fun. However, more sex would.

 

Plus, the food was good here. Great even. Several things always interested him, since he'd moved here. The people, the cities sights, it's home-baked goods and greasy burgers. Food was always one of his highest interests, throughout his whole life. And they served many things that Stiles appreciated at Lisella's Diner, things like; onion rings, buffalo chips, fish and chips, chicken, pizza, ice cream sodas. And so much more.

 

And every Wednesday afternoon, Stiles and Jessica went to the park not two blocks away and laughed at the people falling on roller skates and skateboards. They sometimes stayed until the sun went down. He was glad she was there. He liked her, a lot. And, she had an amazing sense of humor. Things most people would bulk at.

 

"Hey," Jess said a few minutes later, bumping their hips together as they walked to pick up the latest orders, and he cast a look down at the blonde, lips quirked. "I think you have an admirer."

 

Stiles cast an obvious look around to several booths and tables of people to figure out who she was talking about, but she made a squeaking sound and hurriedly grabbed his chin, turning his face and angling it down so he was staring at her. "That is not how one is supposed to react," she made an exasperated noise and let go of his face. "You are the least subtle person I've ever met."

 

He knew that he wasn't subtle, like at all, and while that probably wasn't good at times, he grinned anyway, flashing her a dimpled grin. "It's part of my charm."

 

She rolled her eyes without heat, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder after they'd dropped off their orders, casting him a look from over her shoulder as she turned. "This is exactly why we haven't had sex yet."

 

Stiles scoffed, following her back to the counter but pouting playfully as he slid up close behind her, chuckling when she jumped in surprise before moving to her side. "I thought it was because you'd been born again and became a "virgin", again."

 

Jessica shot him a withering look, and he held his hands up in mock surrender, grinning cheekily as he watched her roll her eyes again. "You're right," she grabbed a container of nachos and cheese that smelled faintly of jalapenos, shoving them in his long-fingered grasp. "But with that attitude, how am I supposed to live vicariously through you?"

 

Stiles shrugged, eyeing the two strawberry milkshakes that she'd grabbed with slight interest for a moment before following after her to the table that had ordered them. "You could just join the fun," he shrugged again when she raised an eyebrow at him, "break the rules, be a _rebel_."

 

She shook her head, curls ascending down her back as they dropped off their orders like clockwork, smiling at the people before she and Stiles heard the familiar bell ding for more food to be taken. They moved back to the counter, and she held up the golden chain around her neck, the matching golden locket dangling from it, something that Stiles had seen many times before. It read; " _Depucelage_ ". It was French, and basically meant; "to provide their first experience with intercourse to a sexual partner, to take away his or her virginity." She had vowed to return the necklace back to the church that had given it to her if she broke her oath to God. She hadn't even had a relationship since. As far as Stiles knew, at least.

 

Stiles nodded, knowing how serious she was about it as he bit his lip. "Sorry-" He started to apologize, but she cut him off, rolling her eyes yet again.

 

"Shut up." She brushed her fingers across the back of his knuckles, and he knew he was forgiven before they both grabbed their orders. As they walked, she said flippantly, "This is why I must live through you. I know you like to get around."

 

Stiles didn't know whether to be offended, or proud, because she said it with a knowing smile. So instead, he shrugged, splitting off to his table before going back to the counter, her not too far behind. "True, although that did make me sound like an easy whore."

 

Jessica grinned with a red-lipped smile, a twinkle in her sky like eyes, and Stiles already knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth. "Own up to it," she smacked his ass from where they couldn't be seen and he swatted her away, lips lifting as he heard her laugh. "God didn't give you a body like that to sleep with the same person."

 

He nodded despite wanting to disagree. "You're right," he looked to the food as they grabbed it, "I've never been a one person kind of guy." _Lie_. "Probably never will be." Now...probably a fact.

 

Jessica nodded like she knew, and they delivered their food. They went off to take more orders once new people had begun to come in, and Stiles remembered her words, about having an admirer. Someone had been staring at him. Watching him.

 

Dread slid down that back of his neck like a serpent, fear crawling up the back of his legs as the instinct to defend himself, to defend everyone innocent, or take them all and run clawed at the front of his mind with razor-sharp nails. His skin crawled for a moment, his nerves spiking with agitated energy as he swallowed, looking around reflexively, fingers twitching around his notepad and pen, muscles spasming.

 

He felt.....nothing.

 

He glanced outside, the sun's light streaming through the window with a beacon like glow. The night wouldn't fall for so many more hours. He was alone without the Oni. If anything happened-how was he supposed to hide things like this in public?

 

He took a steadying breath in the same second of his moment of panic, remembering that he was fine, that maybe he really did just have an admirer, and that he was _safe_. Then, he took the waiting older woman's order.

 

 

                                                                                

 

 

  
It's not three minutes before his break that he and Jessica are attached at the hip again, getting more orders for the booths.   
"Hey, Dave?"

 

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, placing the plate down, flashing the customer his bright and winning smile before trailing after the blonde.

 

"He's the guy that's been staring at you." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder, and Stiles follows the direction with his whiskey gaze to find a guy probably a few years older than him sitting in a booth alone.

 

The guy is ruggedly handsome, sharp features, strong cut jaw with a slight stubble spread across it, golden skin, and a lean body. There's something about him that rings knowing, but Stiles has never seen the guy before. He knows that for sure. But, he also knows that he does not mind if that man's eyes have been on him. At all.

 

He's reading a book, one that Stiles can't identify from where he and Jessica are standing, deep maroon the color of its cover, a cup of coffee not four inches away from his nimble looking grasp. Stiles can already imagine how his fingers will feel against his skin; pressing, firm. Warm. Real.

 

Stiles finally looks back at Jessica, catching her smirk because he was the one staring now, with a roll of his eyes. Nonchalantly he says; "Okay?"

 

She rolls her eyes at that, but then seems too happy to really care. "Well, for one; it's kind of hot." There's a grin on her face that makes Stiles think of a cherished cat, her grey-blue eyes glittering with mischief. "So go get his order, and make me proud."

 

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, his muscles coiling as he raises an eyebrow. She puts her hands on her hips, "Is there a problem?"

 

After a moment, and a few more glances at the man, Stiles loosens his stance, sighing. "No."

 

"Great!" She says cheerily, and Stiles wonders if she wasn't lying about actually living through him. "Now, go."

 

Stiles sighs again, but uncrosses his arms and threads his fingers through his dark hair, licking his lips in case they were dry. They were, but not horribly.

 

He shook himself, ignored Jessica's smirk and lively gaze as he maneuvered between the tables, sidestepping an elderly woman when she stood to leave and waving her off with a polite smile when she tried to apologize. When he gets to the man's booth, said staring guy looks up from beneath dark lashes that match his black hair and stubble, eyes a soft caramel color.

 

Here goes nothing.

 

"Hey, what can I get for you? Besides a coffee, that is." Smooth Stiles, real smooth. What even was that? He can practically feel Jessica smacking the back of his head, almost reaching back to rub it instinctively and imagining her reprimanding him, then teaching him a 101 on; "how to flirt".

 

But the man smiles, and Stiles almost wants to kiss it off his plump lips, biting his own so he doesn't let loose an unmanly sound. The guy's face looks like it was sculpted by the Greek gods. "How about a date?"

 

Stiles pauses his off-track thought, eyes widening as he blinks. "Wait, really?"

 

The man continues to smiles beautifully, having Stiles' full attention. "Yeah."

 

"I'm Dave." Stiles introduces without a second thought, the name like a second skin, his own now.

 

The man holds up a steady hand, and Stiles excepts, biting his lips at the warmth that enters his grasp, fingers holding and pressing just like he'd assumed. Now he just wanted them everywhere else. "Ryan."

 

  
                                                                                  

                                                                             

 

  
"So, Dave huh?" Ryan laughs quietly, nearly ten minutes into Stiles' break, lips pulled into a gentle grin. They had been talking about random things; their favorite things-including their mutual love for star wars-and had been drifting to the topic of his book, which was about a man falling in love with an immortal. Apparently, it didn't seem like they were going to end up together. Stiles had encouraged that it was up to fate. Now, Stiles nods beneath Ryan's enrapturing dark gaze, the man's eyes sparkling in a way that's almost familiar. "It's a nice change."

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow, a distinct feeling tickling the back of his mind, his senses sharp. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean," Ryan murmurs, leaning forward, hand reaching out to touch Stiles', and Stiles doesn't pull away, even as his heart lurches into his throat at the man's next sentence. "How long did you think it would take for someone like me to find you, Stiles?" His fingers brush across Stiles' now shaking ones, and Stiles sucks in a sharp breath of a gasp and can suddenly see a faint glow around Ryan, morphed into the shape of a fox that disappears when his fingers do. "Your little pet demons can't save you now."

 

Stiles jerks back and gets up, away from the booth, away from the man-no, fox, eyes widening in terror. He was okay with werewolves-okay, no he wasn't alright with werewolves coming after him-but it's a hell of a lot better than a fox spirit.

 

He doesn't get very far because Ryan-if that's even his real name-stands, fingers nimbly snatching Stiles' wrist into his grasp like he's done it a million times before, grip vice-like. It hurts, but it gets the reaction intended from the man because Stiles stops, eyes wide as he freezes. The man grins a calm smile, something that Stiles had thought was so perfect, now so terrible, and his eyes show lethal malice as they keep Stiles entrapped.

 

"You really want to cause a scene, in front of all these people?" Ryan crowds in on his personal space, like he's got all the time in the world and Stiles lets him as he glances away quickly, eyes skirting around and meeting a few curious stares, including Jessica's. The fox maneuvers Stiles' wrist behind his own back, leaning close so his warm breath hits Stiles' ear, and he refuses to shudder. "All of these innocent people?"

 

Stiles keeps eyes contact with Jessica, someone that he's grown to care about. Care a lot about. He can't put her in the middle of this-any of them. So he offers her a suggestive wink and hopes she didn't see the look of pure terror so vivid in his gaze. Hopes this isn't the last time he see's her. Then, he lets Ryan move him as he follows the fox and his manhandling grip outside.

 

Once they're outside in the back alley to the diner where no one will see, Stiles snatches his wrist away, not daring to rub the spot where he felt his bones creak. The fox doesn't seem to care as he chuckles lowly, shouldering past him as Stiles stumbles and glances to the open stretch of streets not too far away.

 

He could run.

 

He could take a chance, get out of there right now, but he'd probably get caught. Actually, more than likely. He remembers how fast Kira had been-faster than an alpha. He couldn't outrun a fox. And he couldn't trick a trickster.

 

"Not thinking of ditching me, are you?" Ryan's chilling voice is against the back of his neck, and before Stiles can react in defense the fox turns him around to face him, shoving him back into the stone wall.

 

Stiles winces upon impact, his shoulder blades screaming as a few stitches tear along his spine, warm blood pooling over his skin from the now re-opened claw wound. His teeth clack together sharply as he snaps his jaw shut to stop from crying out, pushing blindly at the fox who probably rolls his eyes at the weak attempt to get free.

 

There's a voice in the back of his mind that begins to whisper, hollow and sinister; _pathetic_.

 

His wrists are snatched, pinned to the stone behind him before he can take a second to blink. Stiles glances at the fox who's eyes flicker to a deep simmering ruby color, flames seeming to dance in his dark irises as Stiles sucks in a crippling breath. Fire Kitsune.

 

"You're with the Cult, right?" Stiles hisses, trying to lift his wrists and cringing into himself once they get crushed back down forcefully. He's trapped.

 

Ryan grins a predatorial smile, like a lion stalking its prey who manages to catch his eyes. Right before being eaten. "Did you figure that out on your own?"

 

The voice is back, like an echo of a whisper curling in his mind, darkness spreading along and through the cracks. _You're the smart one, aren't you? Use your head._

 

Stiles' lips twist down into an abrupt unfamiliar grin, his teeth feeling sharp enough to bite as he leans back, head pressing against the wall. "Maybe," then he's slamming his head forward, his forehead meeting the Kitsune's nose and crushing it in one harsh crack upon impact. The fox snarls, releasing him just as quickly as he grabbed him, clutching his now bleeding nose as his eyes flash violently with fire. Stiles steps closer to him, getting in his space as the fox narrows his gaze in caution. "I don't know, why don't you tell me."

 

Ryan grabs him with one bloody hand and one not by the shoulders, gripping savagely, his fingers digging into his collarbone and slamming him back into the wall again. The alley light surges on suddenly with power and casts a too bright glow onto them in the light of the day before shattering and spraying down upon them, and for a moment Stiles is taken back to that night on the rooftop with Theo. But then the darkness echoes across his thoughts like a plague and the moments gone as he reverses their positions, grabbing the fox's throat and squeezing with an unrelenting grasp.

 

There's another voice in his head now, one that sounds distinctly like Scott, and bitterness creeps into Stiles' emotions, making a turmoil of rage and aggression as he fails to block it out.

 

_There's always a choice._

 

His heart kicks up a beat before steadying unnaturally, the Kitsune's eyes widening as he see's something Stiles doesn't.

 

_Not this time._

 

Before Stiles can stop himself, Ryan's neck is snapped beneath his hands, the sickening sound echoing across the silent alley as the world continues on like nothing happened. Like nothing's changed. Like everything's okay.

 

For a few minutes, Stiles just holds the Kitsune there, waiting for something to happen, for the bastard fox to blink awake and smirk, saying; better luck next time. But it's silent, and the sounds of the city during midday slowly follows back to Stiles' ears, hollowing out the missing pulse in Ryan's heartbeat.

 

Stiles lets go of Ryan in the next instant, the fox's body crumpling to the ground in a heap of dead limbs as Stiles staggers back into the opposite wall, lifting a hand to his mouth, bile rising in the base of his throat. "Oh my god."

 

_What have I done?_

 

 

                                                                               

 

 

  
After hurling a record of three times-nothing but dry heaves and acid really-Stiles struggles to get a grip on reality, convinced-and hoping-desperately that he's hallucinating. He counts his fingers a couple of times, reaching ten with every try and he slides down the wall opposite to the fox's corpse.

 

He killed someone.

 

_Someone else_ , his minds whispers unhelpfully, and Stiles slams his head back onto the wall, ignoring the pain and jarring his thoughts. The voice disappears.

 

Stiles stares at the corpse, wondering if anyone saw. It's unlikely, there was only one entrance to the back alley that led to the streets, and these were back roads that only a small part of the cities people used. The windows only spread across the front of the diner, and the back door was solid metal. No one came out besides Stiles and Ryan, and, no one was screaming.

 

Stiles fumbles for a moment to get his phone from out of his jacket pocket, hands shaking heavily, violently. When he finally does get a hold on it, he has to pry his gaze from the dead body, breath ragged as he hits the only contact on his speed dial.

 

The other line picks up after a few rings, voice fully awake this time around. "Hey."

 

"Chris," Stiles breathes shakily, knee bouncing and almost hitting him square in the chin as he presses himself back even more to avoid it. Almost like he can slip into the crack in the wall. Fade from existence. But he can't stop moving, can't stop shaking.

 

Chris' voice moves from his usual calm and collected to urgent in the next second, something dropping vaguely in the background, and Stiles' nerves don't rest. "What's wrong?"

 

"I um," And Stiles doesn't know what to say, doesn't even know how to tell Chris that he killed someone. In fact, he doesn't even know why he called the hunter. "I..."

 

"Stiles." And just like that, Chris suddenly soothes him. His voice is soft, comforting, and it pulls Stiles back into himself. And that's why Stiles called him. Because he somehow knows that he can count on Chris. " _Breathe._ "

 

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath, ignoring the pull in his chest to look at the corpse across from him, forcing himself to focus on evening his shallow breathing. He uses the sound of Chris' steady breaths to force his to slow, breathing deeply until his matches the one on the other end of the phone. Until he's not about to have a panic attack.

 

"Better?" Chris murmurs.

 

Stiles nods although the hunter can't see him. "Yeah." The silent thank you doesn't go unnoticed by the other man who hums in response. He's waiting for Stiles to start. Stiles appreciates that. "I...I might need your help." Again.

 

"Weapons?" Chris guesses, and Stiles shakes his head to himself, biting his lip and glancing at his open palm. Apparently, he doesn't need weapons.

 

"No, I uh, I need help with burying a body."

 

"A body?" Chris echoes, and Stiles' eyes drop back onto Ryan, bile clawing up his throat again at the sight of the dead fox.

 

"A dead body."

 

 

                                                                                  

 

 

  
Seeing someone from his past after so long is jarring, spreading an old ache across his worn limbs. It hurts. And it makes him wonder how he ever left. But he did, and he wouldn't change it. Even if he didn't truly get out.

 

Stiles doesn't expect it, that's why he stays frozen. He expects Chris to level him with a hard gaze and demand answers-which would probably come later-not to pull him up from where he was sitting on the side of the road and into his embrace.

 

Definitely not what he expected from the hunter.

 

They don't talk for a while actually, much to Stiles' surprise yet again. It's not until late into the night, long after the Oni had come from the shadows but stayed out of Chris' sight that he spoke. After Ryan was already buried six feet under. When the night had finally seemed to settle with ease, all its spirits and creatures faded to nothing.

 

"How did you manage to kill him?"

 

Stiles looks over at Chris from where he's standing a few feet away, both of them deep in the middle of the silent woods, blinking from beneath his dark lashes. Both of them are a mess of tired limbs in the light of the dimly lit star-dotted sky, covered in dirt and soot, the scent of the forest and death clinging to them.

 

He'd told Chris over the phone that Ryan had been a Kitsune. Told him that creatures were coming after him for some unknown reason-which was true-but still didn't mention the Oni. Or whatever darkness that Stiles could feel curling beneath his fingertips. Like it was calling out to him. To be wielded. Owned.

 

Like it was _his_ own.

 

How do you even begin to try to tell someone something like that? Like; "Hey Chris, I think I'm going dark again, but don't worry, I'm not possessed-hopefully-I just think it's my own darkness. Sometimes it screams at me in my dreams."

 

Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. And he wasn't really a fan of Eichen House.

 

"I....snapped his neck." Stiles gestures to their makeshift grave lamely, glancing to the crescent moon before looking back to the hunter. "Then I called you."

 

Chris nods, though there's a look in his pale blue gaze that makes Stiles shift on his feet, the shovel feeling heavy in his long-fingered grasp. "Did you overpower him?"

 

Stiles frowns, eyes falling back to the dirt-packed ground as he breathes out a shaky sigh. "That....that's impossible though. Right?"

 

When he looks back at Chris the hunter is giving him a look he recognizes all too well. One that says it very much isn't.

 

_Fuck._

 

It's only after they're packing up the shovels in the back of Chris' sleek navy blue truck that Stiles notices it. A new mark on his skin, right beneath his rolled up and dirt caked sleeve. It appears to be a sort of small diamond-shaped scar. One that's stark black against the slightly pale skin of his forearm, and surprisingly when it shifts in the glow of the night, shimmering like a flame.

 

                                                                                

 


	10. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is a shorter chapter, but I just wanted to kick things off for the setting of where it's all going. Also, I added new tags!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let me start by apologizing for my extended absence from this book. I hate to be a person who makes or uses excuses, but when the time calls for one-either way, my laptop, which I do everything on, all my writing, my work, etc, is not working anymore. No, everything isn't gone, but I cannot access it at the moment, meaning that all of my writing for this book cannot be used. But that's okay, because I've just recently revised a lot of my planning, and added much more to the plot as well as more characters and memories that I wasn't originally going to include. There would have been a memory in this chapter-since there will be one or more in every one after this of the six months I just time jumped, but I wanted to post this for you guys to make sure that you know that I haven't stopped writing it. This is the book that I have been working on the most-as well as a new sterek and scallison series that I have yet to release-and it's so much more than I originally anticipated it to be, so I hope you enjoy, and come back for more!  
> Love you guys!  
> Ps. Also it says chapter ten, but it's only chapter four, sorry about that.

4 Months, 1 Week, 1 Day Later.

 

It's the sound of the doorknob twisting that pulls him out of his nearly restless slumber. He gives himself a violent shake before readjusting his position on the bed soundlessly, tension curling along his shoulders and sending empty whispers across his mind as his eyes flick open in the darkness. The doorknob clicks softly in the silence of the cool night, rejecting the person on the other side of the door-who was currently trying to break in and invade his space-when the lock doesn't give. It makes adrenaline rush through his veins and pumps his weary limbs, making him more lucid, even as he keeps himself still, only maneuvering the cold metal from underneath his pillow and into his steady palm, finger resting on the Glock 32's trigger. Safety off.

 

He's calm and collected, and he doesn't call upon his Oni, even though he knows he probably should.

 

He isn't afraid.

 

The doorknob jerks sharply once, the lock breaking in the next instant and in turn confirming Stiles' budding suspicion on whether or not the person was supernatural. His finger presses on the trigger gently, not enough to fire it just yet, but enough so that all's he has to do is apply the slightest of pressure, a simple pull of his finger, and the other person will be down. More than likely not dead unless it's a headshot, but down.

 

That's all he really needs.

 

The Motel room door opens slowly, hesitantly, light leaking into the room from the nearby flickering street lamp and large neon glowing Motel sign, and it clicks softly shut behind the person. The broken lock clatters around uselessly in the frame.

 

As soon as the light switch is flipped on-stupid move on their part-Stiles doesn't hesitate, rolling over on the uncomfortably hard bed with lethal grace and pointing the gun at the creature in a swift and executed movement. He's not expecting what he sees.

 

Or who.

 

Derek Hale stands in front of the closed door, eyes glowing a vibrant blue, gaze boring straight into Stiles' soul in ways that it shouldn't. Despite the fact that's it's been a little over a year since he's seen the werewolf, the brooding man still looks the exact same. Fitting leather jacket, burgundy henley stretched across his broad chest beneath, and regular dark jeans. His stubble has grown out some, almost a slight beard now, and his dark hair is disheveled and maybe even an inch or two longer than the last time. All in all, he looks like a fucking mouth-watering greek god.

 

One that Stiles is absolutely sure isn't real.

 

There's no way in hell that Derek Hale would have found him out of everyone-maybe his crazy ass uncle; Peter, who's still locked away in Eichen House, because Peter was a deceptive and cunning little piece of shit like that. One who quote-on-quote; "liked Stiles".

 

_Shudder._

 

Plus, Derek got out. He got away from Beacon Hills and all of its bullshit, and Stiles would hate to be the reason he got back in.

 

The more logical part of his mind-the part that he relies on these days so he doesn't slip up or flip his shit, so Chris won't have to help him more than he already does, and so his Oni won't have to come to his every beck and call-is telling him to shoot Derek in the face, to end the guilt and pain crawling along his skin like a disease. It's uncomfortable, and he hates himself for wishing that this was real, that Derek was actually here right now and not another hallucination that those fuckfaces cooked up to hurt him. He swears he is going to kill them all. Slowly, and painfully. There will be blood.

 

First, it had been his mom that they had manipulated him with, then his dad, and then Donovan. All of which had hurt something awful. And now Derek? Stiles' life was in a pitless spiral to hell.

 

Derek curses quietly, raising his hands to rest level with the sides of his head in a mercy gesture, something Stiles knows for sure the old Derek, the _real_  Derek, the one that he knows truthfully would never come, wouldn't do. Derek was never one to show his weakness, or to admit defeat when he's lost. (Even if he constantly did). It just wasn't in his nature.

 

"Stiles?" Derek murmurs cautiously, and Stiles falters for a brief second at the sound of the wolf's voice, finger spasming over the trigger hauntedly. "Why the hell are you pointing a gun at me?"

 

It feels like Stiles' heart is being torn out all over again. Repeatedly. Like a horribly broken record that just won't stop playing across his fractured edges. The blood rushing through his ears, pounding behind his eyes, and buried deep in the back of his throat almost makes his fingers twitch to check if it's still there. If he's still actually alive.

 

This must be what hell feels like.

 

"You're not real," Stiles whispers to himself, reassuring the fire spreading through his veins, burning through the ice he's fought to keep in place ever since he left Tulare. He steadies his shaking hand, forcing himself to do what needs to be done.

 

_You can't have that kind of weakness Stiles, and no matter how much killing Derek will hurt, it isn't really him_. _You know it isn't._

 

Derek frowns, eyebrows furrowing in the way only his could as he meets Stiles' newly unwavering gaze over the gun again. "What? Stiles, I'm real."

 

Stiles scoffs, pulling his lip into his mouth as he steels himself. "Please. The real Derek Hale would never come looking for me," he lets out a bitter, watery, broken laugh, an emptiness echoing in the hollow of his chest as Derek flinches visibly. He barely takes it into consideration, swallowing down another crippling breath of air. "Next time, try harder. Maybe find someone who actually cared enough to stay around."

 

Derek once again flinches, harder this time, blinking rapidly for a moment and Stiles tilts his head in a growing frown, frustration pent up inside of him. Why is he still talking to this copy of someone he used to know? Why hasn't he killed him yet?

 

Maybe it's because he still wants to believe in something that was never there.

 

He sighs in resignment, eyes tired, breaths shallow. "Goodbye, Derek."

 

Derek seems to recover from whatever had been eating away at his mind not moments ago as his eyes widen and he steps forward frantically. "Wait, wait," there's a desperate plea in his voice, but it's not similar to the other ones that Stiles has heard from the various creatures these past months. Not like when they were under his or the Oni's mercy. Derek's doesn't sound like a beg for help and to just be let go. It sounds like he just wants to be understood. Maybe that's the reason Stiles waits. Because the copy of Derek sounds different from the copies of his other loved ones. Or, that's what he tells himself. "Just wait."

 

Stiles doesn't lower his gun, he isn't that much of an idiot-it's what he likes to believe-as he raises an eyebrow. It's the only gesture he's going to give Derek to argue his point. That he's actually Derek Hale.

 

Derek stares at him openly for a moment, and from where Stiles is standing on guard, he can see his familiar eyes. The wolf's eyes look almost like a glazed honey-hazel color in the fluorescents of the room's lights. The usual soft green is still there with little flecks, like the vast open ground of a lively forest, and Stiles can almost feel his fingertips running through the soft grass, the smell of the leaves and the wild in his senses. It feels....safe. It feels like home.

 

But then it's gone as Derek blinks, and Stiles is left reprimanding himself mentally for almost falling.

 

Derek said nothing as he tilted his head slightly back a moment later, dark locks of hair brushing against his face. It was as if he was looking through the Motel roof to the night sky, possibly to God, for help. Yeah, good luck with that. There was a patch of a slightly darker texture of skin behind his left ear, like a scar, that had Stiles frowning, nerves tingling at the familiarity of it as Derek opened his mouth to speak. "Look, Stiles, I was never really good at-"

 

"Wait," Stiles said now, sharply, cutting him off quietly, but forcefully enough that Derek shut his mouth immediately with a quiet click of his teeth. Or maybe it was the gun. Intimidating is totally what he was going for when he asked Chris for his weapons. Yeah, not murder. He swallowed before slowly venturing forward towards Derek, steps light and cautious, and Derek bit the inside of his cheek visibly, eyes wide as he watched every move Stiles made.

 

The hallucinations before from the Cult hadn't worried about the minor details of Stiles' past when they had been created. They had left things out. Important details that Stiles would never so carelessly forget. Things like the scars on his mom's head from her surgeries, and her dark beady eyes that always seemed so cold, even before the disease. Like the way his dad's eyebrow always twitched when he was under heavy emotion, or how his fingers flexed to scratch his neck in an awkward situation. Like the terrible white glow of Donovan's eyes.

 

(They, unfortunately, did not leave out the horrifyingly painful bite of his wendigo teeth.)

 

When Stiles finally stands in front of Derek he realizes that he actually might be taller than the big bad wolf, but then dismissed the thought immediately. This wasn't about one-upping anyone, or being the better version. There were more pressing issues than his ego. He hated to admit that he was prideful these days. But, then again, a lot has changed in the past six months.

 

So instead, he lifts the hand that isn't holding a gun without taking his eyes off of Derek, said wolf flinching when he reached out to touch his face. Stiles narrowed his eyes, the steel of the Glock in his grasp light as he kept it aimed directly at Derek's skull. He didn't want an explanation from Derek anymore. If he ever really did. He just wanted proof. Proof that he was Derek and not some concoction to pierce through Stiles' unbreakable shield of emotions.

 

None of the others had worked, Stiles had made sure of that. So he wasn't about to let someone he thought he'd never see again, someone he didn't even want to think about again besides in memory, be the one that got through his barriers. He couldn't crack like that. That wasn't how he wanted to go down. Especially not for a fake.

 

Stiles' fingers brush across Derek's bearded jaw, Derek closing his eyes in a flutter of blinks as Stiles breathed deeply through his nose. His gun hand doesn't falter as he grasps Derek's face, turning the wolf's head and angling it to his advantage, exposing his throat. Stiles can feel his racing pulse beneath his palm, the thump wild under his chin as he glances to Derek's face again before looking behind his ear.

 

Stiles is greeted with the terrifyingly familiar Japanese kanji for self, behind Derek's ear, his fingers quivering as he brushed the pads of his fingertips over the appearingly burned scar, the texture like a shock as it seared through his skin, numbing his veins. One that would remain even on a werewolf permanently. One that Stiles saw everyday in the mirror.

 

Stiles immediately drops both the hand on Derek's skin and his gun hand to his sides, taking a step back from the werewolf as his chest seized up in its next breath, a shudder working its way through his bones as a tingling sensation of heat travelled down his spine.

 

Derek was really here. He had really come for him. And now, neither of them are safe.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Stiles splashes some hot water on his face, ignoring the slight sting to his skin at the burning heat. Steam begins to rise from the faucet as the temperature climbs higher and Stiles looks up at his reflection finally, hands resting on the edges of the sink. His knuckles turn white as his grip grows harsh.

 

While Derek Hale-who's actually here, and not fake-looks relatively the same, Stiles does not. He was slightly broader now, training and working out-and being on the run from a literal CULT-really paying off as he filled into his uncoordinated limbs and long body. Which, unsurprisingly, he was still each of despite now being an adult. He had lost the tan he'd gotten in his time in Tulare last month, his naturally pale skin becoming prominent once more and really showing how much he avoided being out in the daylight. His hair had grown out alarmingly, now brushing his shoulders with dark locks that were still as messy as before, and that still had the constant finger-run-through look. The stubble that he'd wanted to develop at his own pace looked more like Derek's current do because he kept forgetting to shave, and it didn't really frame his facial structure right. His face was too skinny for it. All in all, he looks like he hasn't slept in days-which he hasn't, thanks to the Oni wanting to train non-stop, his skin is paler than it should be, his stomach feeling like it's touching his back even though he honestly wouldn't be afraid to go "strut his stuff" right now, and he looks older than eighteen. Maybe twenty, and that's without the offending gun tucked into the waistband of his sweets. Legal or illegal tacks on about another four years because...reasons.

 

Stiles resists the nagging urge to slam his fist into the already cracked Motel mirror in front of him repeatedly, simply because he doesn't want to add another thing to the mound of shit he already has to explain to Derek. Like; hey, why'd you just punch that mirror? Oh, because I was hoping I could beat the shit out of it and then maybe my reflection, along with every other fucked up thing in the world, would shatter into oblivion.

 

....Yeah, Stiles somehow doubts that that would roll over well with the werewolf in his Motel room.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes at his mocking reflection because fuck, why did Derek even come here? There was no reason for him to come searching for Stiles like this, no reason for him to even come back to Beacon Hills. Stiles wasn't important. At least, not to Derek Hale.

 

He sighs through his teeth, agitated and pent up with so much frustration that he feels like he could scream out. But, instead, since Derek might have stupidly led some supernaturals with the Cult on his trail, Stiles needs to throw them off and get himself-and the sourwolf-the hell out of dodge as quick as he can. He doesn't want Derek to be twisted into his bullshit as well, worrying about Chris' safety was already stressing enough. He didn't need to add an ex-alpha Hale werewolf-who has a knack for losing fights, never talking about something he didn't want to unless he has to, otherwise, he doesn't at all, and keeping everything pent up inside....actually, kind of like Stiles himself if he really thought about it-to the list.

 

Stiles reaches down, his bare abdomen brushing against his sweets as he reaches into his combat boot-because he slept with his boots on but not his T-shirt-swiftly pulling out a little silver dagger and flipping it into his palm with practice as he stood back up.

 

He carefully sliced open the skin of his palm, barely even registering the pain of it as he watched the dark crimson liquid pool over, the smell of metal invading his senses so much that he could taste it in the roof of his mouth. It was like cotton, and he resisted the urge to gag. Instead-after glancing to the door and making sure Derek wasn't alerted of his sudden “self-infliction” of pain-he tipped his palm, the blood dribbling down onto the tiled floor, the sound like thunder clapping in his ears.

 

Darkness began to push at his senses, his vision blurring momentarily around the edges before sharpening staggeringly, eyes tingling as the feeling spreads across his body like electricity.

 

In the next second, he breathes in deeply, his mind pulsing with its own power, body feeling hollowed out as he watches his own blood begin to shift and move on the tiles. It seems to fade slightly, quite literally seeping into the floor and spreading out between the cracks, the smell intensifying on multiple levels. He once more glances to the door, feeling more detached now because, why should he care that Derek is in the other room? He's dealt with more werewolves in these past four months than Beacon Hills has in the past three years, one more is no big thing.

 

The thought reels him back into himself, the darkness screaming in it's awake when he slips from its hold as he clenches his fist, the smell of his blood disappearing altogether. His heart is suddenly pounding at a jackhammer pace because, did he really just think about Derek as just another werewolf?

 

This is the reason having Chris around would be a good idea right now. These past four months, besides the Oni being the only constant presence in Stiles life, Chris was around too. They had both become a sort of....anchor. To whatever the hell Stiles had turned into. Yeah, haven't exactly worked out all the kinks on that yet. (He had, he just didn't want to admit it. More than likely never would.)

 

He takes a calming breath, pushing himself back into full control as he flexes his fist, feeling the pull of his power in his palm and gliding between his fingers like a flame. He knows that the smell of his blood will only come back when he allows it too. When he and Derek are nowhere near here. It'll draw whatever is after him like a Beacon. A sort of lure, if you will.

 

He tests its strength before sighing, the darkness edging away from his mind hesitantly, then he can breathe evenly again, the world stable around him, his body and being grounded.

 

When he looks at his hand again the skin on his palm looks brand new. He quickly washes the blood off his hand and exits the bathroom, praying the weight will hold until he gets him and Derek out of there.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Summary. 
> 
> This is new. Will be updated after I finish the first five chapters.


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